


guest starring as that's him, that's the one

by dandelionweed



Category: Actor RPF, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, RPF, Set Hijinks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 03:15:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1154111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dandelionweed/pseuds/dandelionweed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He smiles. He's got dimples, Aidan notices. Aidan doesn't feel like they could've been brothers, but they could've been friends. They definitely could still be friends. He likes this guy, he decides. </p>
<p>This is how Aidan finds himself watching his thirteenth episode of The Almighty Johnsons at three in the morning two weeks after meeting Dean O'Gorman. And everybody else is unhelpful, for crying out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	guest starring as that's him, that's the one

**Author's Note:**

> I dug this out of my drafts from last year. It was originally a kink meme prompt about the boys watching each others' shows, but I've long since lost track of it.

Lenora used to tell Aidan that there were two different types of handsome -- well, more than two, but two main categories that encompass all the different types of handsome that exist. The first is the obvious kind of handsome, the kind that breaks down the door and slams you over the head with a poleaxe. This is the tall, dark and brooding type, a sort of stunning reserved for statues carved into marble. Aidan himself is this type, according to Lenora. You know immediately whether or not you are attracted to a person like this. If you are not, you can't be persuaded.

The second type of handsome is a more subtle type of handsome, a more dangerous type that sneaks up on you like a burglar in the night. You don't realize it's happening until it's too late. One day you're introducing yourself to a friendly stranger, thinking that he has a nice smile, and the next you're viciously sifting through Facebook photographs and insisting aloud to yourself that you're not a stalker. It only goes downhill from there.

Aidan privately never understood what she was on about the second type. Things that sneak up on you are rarely good or attractive. Mold, rust, the Spanish inquisition -- if it was worth any positive attention, Aidan figured, wouldn't you notice it straight away?

So Aidan always thought he was attracted to the first type, and he was perfectly fine with that. It allowed him to trust his instincts, and that always made life a lot simpler. But then, Lenora reasoned, everybody thinks they're attracted to the first type, don't they? That's sort of the point.

This is how Aidan finds himself watching his thirteenth episode of The Almighty Johnsons at three in the morning two weeks after meeting Dean O'Gorman, and telling himself he's not _attracted_ to the actor, he just appreciates his work. He appreciates his work a lot, and this is a good enough reason to skip all the scenes without him.

\--

Dean is new. Technically, they're all new, but Dean is the newest, brought in at last minute when the production is already underway. There'd been a bit of a mad panic when Rob had to leave, but cast and crew were reassured that they should just continue on and not lose any sleep over it. Peter, Fran and Philippa would spend a few days finding a replacement, and then report back.

Nobody actually sleeps. It's like the waiting room outside a hospital room, with twelve worried fathers-to-be wandering around. Aidan doesn't count himself among them. He feels more like an awkward and slightly resentful older sibling, wondering about the little monster he'd be stuck with for the next year and a half, and whether or not the guy would be bearable.

On the fifth day, Peter emerges at breakfast, hair sticking straight up. "We found someone!" he declares. "Aidan, if you would come around at about noon? Richard, we'll call you in if we need you, so just keep and ear out. If everything works out, we can start again on Monday."

Aidan considers asking what'll happen if everything doesn't work out. Peter turns to him with a glint of iron in his eye that means: it took long enough to get this production off the ground, DON'T FUCK IT UP, if you please.

"All right?" Peter says.

"Yessir," Aidan says.

\--

It isn't that Peter expects his actors to get along at all costs. Peter knows better than to force chemistry where it doesn't belong -- he didn't make a film trilogy that earned over two dozen Academy Awards by being an unreasonable dictatorial nightmare. But Aidan knows that a lot is riding on this, and the chemistry test will be the first and last big test. If Fili and Kili don't get along, none of this will work.

Aidan can be professional, and he considers himself fairly easy to get along with. If he's honest though, the whole thing makes him kind of uncomfortable. As the youngest member of a massive cast of professionals with far more working experience than himself (Ian McKellen! Ian Fucking McKellen's career depends on this!), Aidan feels somewhat less than qualified as a screening mechanism. Who is he to say whether the new guy belongs? What if Aidan is the one that doesn't belong and the new guy gets the blame because he got here first? Can they fire him now if he's the one that blows it? Is there a rule about being made to audition twice because his co-star had to leave and sorry, Aidan, we've decided to replace both of you, can't have a mismatched set now, can we?

It feels like a blind date with a billion-dollar production on the line and a family of thirteen gruff uncles watching. It feels like, oh, God, it feels like some sort of royal dwarven match-making. Aidan suddenly has a lot of sympathy for Kili.

Something else occurs to him.

Aidan looks up and realizes he's been picking at his breakfast for so long that most everybody's cleaned up and left. Only Richard, who always winds up at the buffet table last, is still around to hear him.

"If they decide he looks better in a beard, do you think I'll have to get one to match?" Aidan asks, trying not to sound too despondent. They've already said he was allowed to shave, so he has been, but what if he gets one of those glue-on things? He's seen Jed's, and it's cool, it's really cool, but he's pretty sure he'd rip the entire thing off with the bowstring the third time he tried to shoot an arrow.

Richard looks amused, but he doesn't anwer.

When Richard's done, he gets up slowly and clasps Aidan on the shoulder. He stares at Aidan for a moment in that strangely intense way of his, then nods, picks up his tray and walks off.

Somehow, Aidan feels a little better.

God, and they haven't really even begun shooting yet. These films are really going to be messing with his head.

\--

"Hello, I'm Aidan Turner," says Aidan, reaching out for a handshake.

"Dean O'Gorman, pleased to meet you," the guy says with a New Zealand drawl. He smiles. He's got dimples, Aidan notices. Someone explains to Dean that Aidan will be playing Kili, and Dean nods, "Ah, so we'll be brothers? That's cool, man."

Dean is not much like Rob. Rob was enormous, for one thing. Dean is slight, casually dressed, somewhat unassuming. Rob could've eaten Aidan for breakfast, but Dean looks like he doesn't really go for breakfast, like he sleeps in and maybe just has a big lunch after? Rob made Aidan feel slightly like he was straining to catch up all the time, which is not a bad thing, but a bit intimidating nonetheless. Dean feels like he's on a level, like he'd pause and wait for you. It's disarming, and makes Aidan think there must be something about this guy that makes him really difficult to work with, because Aidan feels himself relaxing already and nothing can be that easy.

They have a script. Aidan reads Kili the way he's already decided to play him. Dean matches him perfectly. It's as if this were a conversation they were having, not scripted at all.

Aidan doesn't feel like they could've been brothers, but they could've been friends. They definitely could still be friends. He likes this guy, he decides. Dean is friendly, and nice, and -- and cute.

He frowns. He's still trying to decide whether that's okay to think about the man when Peter calls Richard over and introductions are made all over again.

"Dean O'Gorman, pleased to meet you," Dean says with that drawl and smile again.

Richard says hi, and Dean cranes his neck up a little to look him in the face. He makes big eyes like a puppy as he does so, and as a result, Aidan is too distracted to pay attention to the conversation until Peter ushers Dean away again.

Afterwards, Richard puts his hands in his pockets and walks back out the way he came. Aidan trails alongside him, feet shuffling on the tarmac outside.

"What do you think?" Aidan ventures at last. "Could be ours?"

Richard squints into the distance. "Hmm," he says.

Aidan isn't sure what to make of that. It could be approval, but he's not sure. "He's pretty good," he offers. "At least I think so."

Richard mulls this over. "He's cute," Richard finally says, sounding a bit surprised.

Aidan's mouth snaps shut with a click. Their leader has said so, it must be true.

\--

Dean joins the cast that week. They don't make Aidan grow a matching beard.

On the first day of shooting, someone accidentally smacks Dean in the face with a foam sword. Everybody crowds around; Dean holds his (fake) nose and waves them all off. "S'fine," he says. "Good swing."

Everybody likes Dean. It is almost kind of suspicious. Aidan wonders if they actually put Dean through the casting process, or if Peter somehow built Dean piece-by-piece like a custom robot suited to the project's atmosphere on the set. The amount of times Dean messes up his lines (almost as much as Aidan does) weighs against that theory, though, because if Dean were a robot built by Peter, he would probably get his lines right straight off the bat.

\--

"Morning," Chris the PA greets.

"Morning," Aidan returns at the door, even though it's nearly noon. He scratches his head and squints against the glare of the midday sun, then steps down to hold his hand out. He's handed the script notes and schedule for the day.

"Thanks," he says, flipping through them. Chris nods and turns to go. Aidan's about to retreat back into his trailer when he notices the other folder of papers tucked under Chris's arm, and something clicks in his brain.

"Wait," he says, and Chris turns and looks at him expectantly. "Is that Dean's? I'll get it to him."

Chris looks at him dubiously. "You sure?"

"Yeah, he's just across the way," Aidan says, as if Chris doesn't know and isn't headed there right now.

Chris seems wary. "If you're messing with him because he's new and he doesn't get the right copy…"

"No! No, of course not," Aidan says, taken aback. He thinks he looks offended enough, but holds his heart for effect. Chris's eyebrow goes up and Aidan thinks better of it -- he supposes over-acting isn't going to do him any favors here. "No, really, I'm just going to give it to him, that's all. I was on my way."

Chris surveys him critically, then hands him the folder. "All right. No funny business," he warns.

Aidan tucks the folder under his arm. Chris stands there, as if waiting for him to go straight over as he said he would. Aidan stalls for a moment, edging back towards his door, then sighs and starts trudging over to Dean's. He feels Chris leave after he gets halfway there.

It takes a while before Aidan realizes he's not actually sure what he's doing. He has an excuse to be here, which is great, but now he can't remember why he wanted to be here in the first place. This is the problem with doing things on a whim, he thinks. Well, he can't back out now.

Aidan knocks nervously. It takes a full dozen seconds before the door rattles and opens with some difficulty.

"Aidan," Dean says, bemused and pleasantly surprised. He's wearing a long-sleeved tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up and there's some sort of cloth wrapped around his arms. "What's up?"

"Uh," Aidan says. "I got our scripts for today."

"Oh yeah? Thanks," he says, blithe and unsuspecting. Aidan sees why Chris was worried at once. On the other hand, Dean probably has nothing to worry about, because anybody trying to mess with him would have to get through Chris. The rest of the crew, too, most likely. Dean runs a hand through sun-streaked hair, takes his folder, leafs through the pages. "Anything big?"

"Not really, no," Aidan says. "No changes for us."

"Oh, good," he says. "Good. Still learning the first version," he explains apologetically. He looks a little embarrassed.

"No, no worries," Aidan says, feeling himself warm. "I'm still learning the first version and I've been here for months." He hesitates. "Am I allowed in? Or am I better off out here?" He waves his hands around to indicate a circle of space around himself. Dean doesn't seem like he would mind, but you never know.

Aidan is right, Dean doesn't mind. "Sure, sure, come in," Dean says. He disappears inside the dark trailer, and Aidan ducks to follow him.

For a space that is relatively empty, Dean's trailer looks surprisingly lived-in. Part of that is the clutter. There isn't much in here, but what is there is everywhere: crumpled shirts, socks in three different corners, two jackets thrown over each other on a chair, a still-open umbrella propped up by the counter. The blanket over the sofa is in minor disarray, as is everything else in sight. Aidan doesn't see any dust, and nothing is strictly dirty. Even the dishes are done. It simply seems like Dean doesn't mind much where things go -- his possessions stretch out and fill the space, whatever space is available.

"Sorry about the mess," Dean says.

"No, it's nice," Aidan says, and it is. It's an incredibly comfortable place. It feels kind of like home.

There are no photographs or posters so far, just things that you might bring on an overnight trip. Aidan supposes Dean hadn't had much time to pack anything personal, and besides, he didn't live so far away as those of them who'd come overseas. Where it lacks in décor the place has character, however.

What there is is a wall cluttered with pencil sketches. They appear to be of anything and everything. Landscapes include trees on rolling hills and a series of waterfalls over jagged cliffs. Still lifes include a folding wooden chair on top of a folded wooden chair, a pair of flip-flops on top of an old radio, and the classic flowers-in-a-vase. There are a few portraits as well, of people Aidan doesn't recognize, looking away, as if unaware of the artist.

Tacked over the window like a screen are a handful of ink drawings, overlapping and lit up, so that the strokes criss-cross each other through the translucent paper. The top-most drawing is still drying. Aidan looks, fascinated, at the damp ink on the drawing, then to the table beneath where an old newspaper's been laid out with a murky pot of water, then to the brushes threatening to roll off the side of the table, and finally across to Dean, who is stripping off the smudged cloth from his arms. He pieces the evidence together.

"You did all these?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "I do when I have some time."

"These are amazing," Aidan says, stunned, flipping up a sketch of a dog to find a sketch of an exotic-looking fish underneath. "What are these, what are they for?"

"Nah, nothing much, these are just for fun," Dean says. "Can't get anything massive done up here. I haven't got the easel set up, so this is just for killing time."

Aidan stops poking through the papers and turns around. "You paint?" he asks.

Dean shrugs amicably. "Well, yeah. Painting, photography. I figured that if acting didn't pay the bills, I could fall back on something else that didn't pay the bills. I had a lot of free time between jobs, anyways, you know how it is…"

Aidan does know how it is, but he spends most of his free time playing XBox. This is so far beyond him.

"I mean I couldn't play XBox the whole time, you know what I mean?" Dean says. "That thing breaks every other week."

Oh my God, he's perfect, Aidan thinks with dawning dread. He's actually perfect. He has wildly misjudged, he has enormously underestimated his co-star.

"What?" Dean says warily when the pause has gotten uncomfortably long.

"Nothing, I just -- I've been here for months and you just make me look really badly-adjusted," Aidan says, awed.

"Nah, not at all," Dean huffs a laugh. "Was bored as hell until you came along, actually."

Aidan's heart melts a little bit.

"So what do you do around here when nothing's happening?" Dean asks.

"Skydiving," Aidan says, because it sounds suitably impressive.

Dean asks, squinting, "Really? Just… casually?"

"No, not really," Aidan admits. "Stephen's got a Playstation," he suggests.

Dean's eyebrows go up. "Yeah? What's he got on it?"

"I dunno. Don't think he's got it set up yet."

"Is he there right now?"

"I think so." Aidan peers out the window. "Wanna go?" he says.

"Let's go," Dean says.

\--

They murder Stephen's Playstation within a week.

"Oh, no," Stephen says in dismay. "What've you done now?"

Aidan looks over, arms raised, sofa blanket mid-flap over the smoking console. Dean pokes his head up over the cupboards, where he's kneeling with an eggbeater in his hand and a bunch of dish towels between his teeth.

"It's perfectly fine," Aidan reassures him. "This happens to mine all the time at home."

\--

Stephen isn't too put out in the end. Regardless, they spend the next week trying to find a new hobby.

"It's unfair, it is," Aidan whines. "If Dean hadn't -- "

"If Dean hadn't what?" Dean frowns. "I thought you said we had it under control!"

"I did! What were you doing with that glass of water anyway?"

"Well, I couldn't let you stay on fire, could I?"

"Don't overreact," Aidan splutters. "I wasn't on fire -- "

"I'm sorry, are you getting me my tea or are you getting out of my fucking dressing room?" Martin says.

"Right, yeah," Dean says, "We just -- "

"Don't they have a room for you two somewhere?"

"We do, only we broke the Playstation and now there's nothing to do," Aidan confesses.

"Find something," Martin orders. "Somewhere else."

"Okay," Dean says.

"Don't you think you could -- "

"No."

"Okay," Aidan says.

\--

"Oh my God," Dean exclaims.

Aidan, who has been sitting there trying to balance a water bottle on his forehead without scratching his make-up for the last forty minutes, nearly tips out of his chair. "What? What happened?"

Dean has his MacBook open on the coffee table, and he rapidly swipes it around at Aidan. "Look -- look at this!"

Aidan gets up and leans over. Dean turns the volume up.

"What in the hell is that?" Aidan asks. "Is that -- is that McTavish?"

"It is!"

"Is that Nesbitt?"

Dean sounds gleeful. "It is!"

"What the bloody hell is happening? Oh my God, why are you -- where did you find this, why are you watching it? Turn it off," Aidan says, fascinated.

"You're watching it too," Dean says.

"I know, what are you doing to me?" Aidan exclaims. "What is this? Why is he naked, why is he tied to the chair? Why do you have access to this?"

"It's on the internet," Dean says defensively. "It's a television show. It aired in 2007."

"That's recent," Aidan says, horrified.

"Not really," Dean says.

"I don't care when it aired, it's too recent," Aidan says. "Why are you looking up something called -- " oh, God, Aidan thinks -- "'Mr. Hardcastle' while I'm around anyway?"

"I wasn't -- I thought looking up some of our costars' past work would be a good idea," Dean says. "A relevant way to spend our time."

"This is not relevant," Aidan says. "This was not a good idea."

Dean shrugs.

"What else is there?" Aidan says, butting in on the couch beside Dean.

Dean opens up Wikipedia.

\--

They're on an Ian McKellen fansite.

"Who uploads this material?" Dean wonders. "Does he do it himself, do you think?"

Aidan thinks. "I don't want to think about it," he concludes.

"Surprisingly easy to imagine," Dean says sagely. "Right. Next one."

\--

Ian only smiles when they bring it up.

"The wonders of modern technology," he says mildly.  
  
They don't bring it up again.

\--

The other thing McKellen says, though, is "Is that what you two have been spending all your time doing together? Good lads," and then he nods and winks like a lascivious Santa.

But Aidan realizes he and Dean really have been spending a lot of time together. Not just on set, not just at meals, not just work-week evenings, but a lot of time. He doesn't want to say every waking moment. That wouldn't be accurate. If he did spend every waking moment with Dean, it wouldn't be possible to spend more time with him, and that's what he still wants to do.

He hopes he isn't bothering Dean, really. He doesn't feel like he is, but it's possible. It's just rare to get along with someone as well as they do.

Aidan only lets himself puzzle over this briefly. But Dean doesn't seem to mind him, and that's good enough.

\--

"You've been collecting a lot of these," Aidan says.

He's in Dean's trailer again, and they're not in costume this time. Officially, they're keeping out of the way like good lads. Dean is mostly painting, and Aidan is mostly hiding from Ken Stott. Aidan picks up one of the vast jumble of polaroids that have replaced the pencil sketches on Dean's wall.

"Well, I can't just toss them away, can I?" Dean says, frowning at his canvas.

The photo Aidan is holding is of treetops, slightly out of focus. He shifts it aside and finds a photo of a masking tape mark on a wall.

"No, you don't want to forget these moments," Aidan says.

"Ehh," Dean says dismissively. "Moments are for Instagram."

Photo of the corner of a picture frame. "Where you can see them every day and hold them close to your heart, you mean?"

"I've seen you fall asleep cradling your phone, man," Dean says. "I choose to believe it's not to pictures of you."

"People fall asleep cradling pictures of me all the time where I come from."

Dean snickers, and looks back over at Aidan. There's sun reflecting off the glossy magazine pages he's taped to the table beside him, and it looks a little like he's on fire from this angle.

"See, if those were photos they took themselves, that would be illegal." Dean looks sympathetic. "If they're from your Instagram, your stalkers are just lazy."

Aidan stares at Dean's blue eyes. "You've paint on your nose," he says.

Dean frowns, as if he was expecting some sort of retaliation and that wasn't it. "Do I?"

Aidan understands, though. Something about the idea that you can run out of film, just reach the end of it and hold it in your hands, a limited edition, only printed once, makes you reluctant to let go. Each frame is something chemical, something someone has deigned worth the minute or two to develop. Aidan won't pretend to understand poetry, but the selection of shots here are a little like that -- incomprehensible, with a pattern just beyond grasp.

They're works of art, and Aidan won't go so far as to admit it, but he loves them. They're beautiful.

While Dean goes off to find a towel, Aidan picks up another polaroid. It is of the top half of Dean's head in front of a blank wall. There is a cushion balanced on his head, and a roll of tape on top of the cushion. The angle is off by about five degrees.

"What is this?" he calls.

"Test shot #24," Dean says. Indeed, that is what it says in black marker on the back when Aidan flips it around.

He looks at it again. It is the stupidest picture he has ever seen. It's a work of art. He loves it.

Dean returns from the depths of the cabin, empty-handed and with a blue smudge on his cheek. "You liar," he accuses with exaggerated rage. He doesn't look upset at all.

Aidan looks at the photograph, looks at Dean. Looks at the photograph, looks at Dean. A horrible realization dawns on him.

Dean frowns. "What?"

Aidan blinks and stammers. "I -- nothing, I have to -- to do -- something -- somewhere else."

He flees the scene in alarm.

\--

The thing about the obvious type of handsome is that it's also easy to get over. Aidan doesn't like to think of himself as forgettable, but easy come, easy go. He's not averse to a one-night stand or two. Life is probably better that way while you're young.

Dean's probably memorable.

This isn't going to be good for Aidan.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I really did google 'Mr. Hardcastle' for this and I don't regret it. More of this to come, hopefully.


End file.
